


Service with a Smile

by lovelessly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Costume Kink, Double Penetration, M/M, Maids, Slash, Threesome, Waiters & Waitresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessly/pseuds/lovelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Extremely old kink meme fill reposted for archive purposes)<br/>For the prompt -<br/>nakedwaiter!England/Frenchmaid!France - either one servicing the other, or both servicing a third person. Wow, looking back on these, they were really terrible, haha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Service with a Smile

England had asked him what was so wrong about using the whips and handcuffs again. Nothing, only the “again” part, France replied with a sneer. There was the usual arguing and trading of insults, but in the end, England could not deny it, he was absolutely depraved and the idea of trying something new began to have a significant undeniable appeal. All right, he might as well do it, only so that France wouldn’t have time to think of a suitable blackmail. Plus, the sooner they did this, the sooner they could get back to the good old whips. Right.

Which explained how he ended up wearing that cursed naked waiter outfit tonight, trying to preserve the last vestiges of decency by pouring out a glass of wine as gracefully as possible. He set the glass down on the silver platter resting on top of the dining table and bade a sorrowful farewell to his pride as he watched the door impatiently. That bastard sure liked to take his time.

On cue, France sauntered into the dining room, locking the door behind him. He twirled around so that England could have a perfect view of his sexy “French maid” outfit. England grimaced and silently wished the pervert could have worn anything else, including nothing but a rose. Each of the elements of the ensemble might have looked fine on its own, but all together made for a hideous assault to the visual centers of England’s brain. The bright pink off-the-shoulder mini-dress with fur trim, the fishnet stockings, the red knee-high boots, that silly hairbow… The fact that he didn’t shave any part of his body despite repeated entreaties. It was enough to swear a normal person off sex for life, but as we have it, neither France nor England were normal persons. Not even close to normal.

“Good evening, madam,” England said, smiling stiffly but determined to act the part and get this over with as soon as possible.

France blushed - apparently he could blush on command, seeing as he had absolutely no sense of shame and therefore no reason to ever be embarrassed.

“Bonsoir, monsieur~” and England thought he should have not drank half the wine bottle already, because that breathy falsetto actually sounded sexy and ergo distinctly at odds with the rest of his most hated enemy. With a passable attempt at an innocent yet coquettish look, France flitted over to England’s side, glancing at the mostly empty dining table. “Shall I help you prepare master’s dinner?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” England grumbled unhappily. Setting a table, good God, how long was he planning to draw this out? Mastering his impatience, England smiled again and bowed slightly. “After you.”

France giggled and then gave him a quick peck on the cheek before retrieving the tray of utensils. He was really having too much fun, and arrogant England trying to act like a good servant, why, nothing could be more satisfying. And that delicious naked waiter outfit, if one could call a small black apron, a bow tie, cuffs and socks and shoes an outfit… Oh, those English and their efforts to hide how perverted they really are!

“Stop looking at my ass, France!” the other nation hissed.

“I can not help it, mon cher, it’s right there.”

“Just… hurry up and set the table, please.” England tried to turn so that only his barely clad front could be seen, which made it a little difficult to fold napkins, but whatever.

“Very well, since you said please…”

 

Taking care to bend over the table whenever possible, France finished laying down the assorted forks and knives around the plates, glancing over his shoulder every now and then to make sure England’s focus was still on him. It was, of course, and judging by the growing flush coloring that pale skin, it will continue to be. Perfect.

They finally met at the end of the table, their fingers brushing while placing the last objects into place. England drew his hand back as if it burned as France blinked and pretended to look innocent.

Realizing how odd that must have seemed, England cleared his throat and asked, “Er, w-would madam like a glass of wine?”

“Of course~!” He must really be getting into the roleplay if he was acting this polite---

“Pour it yourself.”

“What?!” That was not cute at all. France pouted and stamped his foot, but to no avail, that unforgiving pirate smirk had returned.

After a few more mean-spirited exchanges, they ended up sharing the rest of the bottle. It was really good wine, and England thought this might not have been so bad after all, if they ended up not doing anything else.

But no, France’s fingers were already resting on the bare skin of his hips, after failing to undo the double-knotted apron strings, and he wasn’t sure when his arms had pulled the other nation closer, to feel the fabric and fluff of the outrageous costume against his bare chest. It was really a mystery who kissed who first, and England certainly had no recollection of how he wound up sitting in one of the elegant mahogany chairs, with France kneeling on the lush Persian rug and giving him a very meaningful look. Ah, fuck it all, he thought, and stopped thinking properly as he felt France’s fingers trail up and down the skin of his legs.

All thoughts, proper or not, stopped completely once the other nation leaned forward, long hair tickling the insides of his thighs, warm breath at his groin sending his blood rushing down south. Bloody hell, this wasn’t particularly different from what they usually did, though France’s choice of clothing more unfortunate than it usually was, but he was getting hard already just thinking about this ridiculous situation. And France was… France was not doing anything. That pervert was just staring up at him, smiling slightly, blue eyes shining with mischief.

“Would monsieur like me to pleasure you?” he asked breathily, fluttering his lashes because he knew how much that annoyed England.

“Get on with it, frog.” A strained pause. “Now would be nice.”

“As you wish, monsieur,” came the soft reply.

France bent his head and ducked under the scrap of black cloth to ply his considerable skills. Just touching his lips to the underside of his cock was enough to make England tremble, and taking him all the way elicited a gasp and stifled moan. England reached down to grasp at France’s silken locks, found the hairbow in the way and promptly took it off and tossed it aside.

If it were possible to grin while giving head, France would, but he was too occupied with making England come to do much else. Gently running his tongue against the shaft, sucking vigorously, then backing off and coming down again, listening to the soft pants and occasional whimpers from above that assured him England really, genuinely, definitely enjoyed this, despite his scowling. It was only a matter of time before France felt the fingers curled in his hair yank hard all of a sudden, heard his name being hissed and then cursed, and he swallowed automatically, reveling in the beautiful taste and sensation and sound and sight that was England come undone.

 

England had long ago succumbed to France’s skills, discarding the last remnants of decency in favor of enjoying himself. The way France knew exactly how to use his tongue and lips and throat to give pleasure, the gorgeous sight of him kneeling, eyes half-closed, mouth reddened and glossy-wet and full, the soft obscene sounds he made as he sucked and licked as if he was born to do so. Something must be wrong with him, England thought, because even the fact that they were wearing such ridiculous outfits was turning him on and pushing him faster and harder to the brink.

When he finally recovered his senses and gained some measure of control over his breathing, he opened his eyes to see France resting his scratchy chin on his lap, looking very self-satisfied.

“I am not the only one wearing a servant’s outfit tonight, mon chou.”

“F-fuck you.”

“Oh, monsieur! How naughty!” France exclaimed in feigned astonishment while England rolled his eyes. But he had no choice in the matter, and thus said nothing when France got to his feet and then eased himself onto England’s hips, straddling him.

“If that is what you want, I must oblige.” The kinky bastard was licking his lips now, and his hair hung loose and disheveled around his face and bare shoulders, his face still flushed from the exertion, and dear God, England would need another bottle of wine to forget the fact that he was getting aroused again so soon.

“Shut up, and watch where you’re putting that filthy whore mouth,” England grunted, sliding his hands underneath France’s skirt and trying to avoid getting kissed again.

“You love my mouth,” France snickered and settled for kissing the other right above the left nipple.

“And why the fuck are you wearing underwear? Of all the…” England hooked his fingers into the waistband of the red lacy panties - absolutely tasteless, a part of him thought and was ignored by the rest - and with some maneuvering from both parties, he managed to get them off, tossing it onto the floor as well. Eager to get something this night, France wriggled his hips enticingly, but England just hoisted him up and set him down, a bit roughly, on the dining table.

“You’re heavy,” he muttered as explanation, and France shrugged, having been fucked on less comfortable surfaces many times before in his sordid history. With a knowing grin, he gracefully lifted one leg and rubbed it in between England’s thighs, causing him to splutter and curse.

“Oooh, take me now, you dirty waiter, you!” France squealed in delight, pushing even harder against England’s groin with a leather clad ankle. The other nation finally managed to shove France’s distracting leg out of the way, and things were about to get much dirtier when they heard a loud slam coming from the front of the (until now) empty house.

“Wh-what was that?” England’s mind was racing with several possibilities, all of them undesirable. “My God, is someone else supposed to be here?!”

“N-no! I have no idea!” France looked genuinely worried, so England, in his mercy, decided to delay beating him up until after they found out what was going on.

“France, try to think. Who else could have the key to this place?” Then England remembered who he was talking to, a depraved hedonist of extremely loose morals, and sighed. “Fine, who would be most likely to drop by unannounced?” he hissed, fear of getting caught setting him even more on edge.

But France never got to answer before they heard someone trying the handle and then pounding on the door to the dining room with unnecessary violence.

“Hey, who’s there? Is that you, France?” came a muffled, but very familiar voice. “Open up!”

“You, hide!” France whispered, shoving England towards the kitchen. “I will try to distract him or something.”

He barely had time to duck into the pantry, crouching down amidst the strings of onions and bags of potatoes, before France trilled out, “I am very busy right now, Prussia, can’t it wait?”

“What can you possibly be doing that’s so important?” Prussia scoffed. “Open up, or I’ll kick the door down.”

France decided the quickest way to get him out was to obey, so he cracked the door open, frowning at the nation smirking insolently back at him. “And what do you need that is so urgent?”

“Aw, can’t I spend some time with my other best friend?” With his boot jammed into the doorway, Prussia shoved his way into the room, causing France to stumble backward. 

“Whoa, what the hell are you wearing? Looks…” Wrong, he wanted to say, but the last time he described France’s fashion like that he got a pincushion to the face. “Hot,” Prussia finished smoothly.

“Of course! It is a sexy maid costume, obviously.” France winked flirtatiously to demonstrate its full effect.

Prussia’s half-confused, half-disgusted look soon turned into one of dawning comprehension. Crimson eyes roving over France’s tousled hair and all of the blatant evidence of shenanigans having just taken place, the (former) nation decided to change his original plans in favor of something much more fun.

“Like one of them naughty French maids, eh?” Quickly closing the short distance between them, Prussia grabbed a now wide-eyed France by the arms. “I like those. Always wanted one for myself,” he muttered.

Merde. France was trapped, and all thanks to his ego, though whose he would not specify. England will just have to stew a little longer, he thought spitefully as he tittered and tried to pull out of Prussia’s grip.

“Oh! M-monsieur, I must finish the dinner preparations. If you will please excuse me-”

“Hah, the reason you haven’t finished yet is because you’ve been fooling around with someone else. Don’t deny it, you.” Prussia freed one hand in order to swat him on the rump, and France let out an affronted squeal.

“What a little slut,” Prussia snarled, gleefully leering at him as his mind went down the predicted avenues. “I ought to punish you, right here.”

 

Worried about the eventual outcome of France’s distraction, England had been trying to listen in on the conversation, but could not quite catch all of the words from his hiding place. All of a sudden, there was a thump and a crash of silverware and plates falling to the floor, and then France shouting in distress. Without realizing what he was doing until it was far, far too late, England rushed to the doorway, skidding to a halt once he caught a glimpse of the scene before him.

It was unlucky for England that Prussia looked up from man-handling France onto the tabletop just as he arrived, and while Prussia could not really be called a genius, even he could put two and two together and arrive at a fairly passable answer.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the high and mighty British Empire himself, come out to play.” Prussia sniggered as England blushed bright red, the last shred of dignity gone out the window.

“Prussia, I’ll have you know that you are interrupting our… our practice,” England declared as haughtily as possible, drawing himself up to his full height and staring at the other nation evenly. “Yes, our rehearsal. For a play. A Shakespearean remake, if you must know.”

“Fucking on the dining table counts as rehearsal? Seriously?”

“As if you would know what real drama is like!” England shot back, already off on a tangent, and the other nation laughed. How West ever lost to these morons, he would never know.

“You’re unbelievable, England. But well, I suppose desperate men would sink this low,” he said, leaning forward to bite at France’s shoulder possessively

“And you’re not desperate, too?” There was not a hint of jealousy in his voice, no, not at all.

“Prussia, mon cher, you are crushing me,” France interrupted nervously.

“Shut up, France,” Prussia and England both snapped. They returned to glaring at each other, ready at a moment’s notice to re-enact both World Wars, their chosen battleground currently attempting to slither away unnoticed.

“All right, how about you two do me a favor? And I’ll consider keeping your ‘rehearsal’ secret,” Prussia offered, and there was no mistaking what sort of favor he had in mind.

“Absolutely not!” England was not giving in to this hooligan, he had not before, and he was not going to start now.

“Suit yourself.” Ignoring the horrified nation standing at the doorway, Prussia turned his attention back to France writhing underneath his hips. At least this one could be counted on to give up in the proper way.

England could only watch as Prussia made good on his intentions to fuck France so hard he would be speaking in German for the rest of the night. (One could only assume that that meant very very hard.) It was pointless to try to block out the sounds, the sights, he knew what was happening, and he could not bear it any longer. This was his France, this was supposed to be their night, no amount of pride should take precedence over that.

“Wait, Prussia!”

“What is it now?” Prussia grumbled, shooting England a dirty glare.

Looking only into those red eyes, England gave his best attempt at a seductive smile. “Please, allow me to assist you, sir.”

“Hey, don’t I have a say in this?” France whined, before glancing over at England and mouthing something to the effect of “I will fucking kill you” in French.

“No, you don’t,” Prussia answered, “You never do, you should know that by now, you slut.” France narrowed his eyes in annoyance, but laid back down on the table without another word, hiking the hem of his skirt up to offer Prussia the best possible view.

“You, hurry up and get him ready for me, I haven’t got all day.” Prussia motioned him over imperiously, and England grabbed the lube they had been planning to use, smiling bitterly at the intruder in return.

“That cockstrong bastard will pay dearly for this,” England thought. Jamming his slick fingers roughly up between France’s legs, England muttered into his ear, “Look, just cooperate. He’s got a cell phone, and he knows how to use it.”

France looked a bit pained, but endured his humiliation in the sexiest, most irritating way he knew how, and trust him to know plenty of ways to act both sexy and irritating. “Oh! R-right there, Angleterre! Oui, harder!” he cried out enthusiastically, trying to push back down on England’s fingers while the other nation hid his grin by sucking at the slender curve of France’s throat.

Prussia watched them for a few minutes, growing steadily more uncomfortable as England finger-fucked France for all he was worth.

“Okay, that’s enough!” he growled, pulling England away at last. He unbuttoned his jeans hastily, sliding them down, but before he could move over to where France was leaning on one elbow, flushed and panting and absolutely ready to ravished, England had flung his arms around his waist to stop him.

“Sir, there is no need to rush things, is there?” England asked, ever so innocently trailing a hand down the flat stomach. Prussia was about to retort that yes, actually, he was in a hurry, but England managed to push him onto a chair, capturing his lips into a fierce wine-flavored kiss.

“Well,” Prussia breathed as soon as England pulled away, “that’s more like it, H-HEY---!” And anything else Prussia wanted to say was cut off as England took his cock in hand and started stroking him quickly, like a man bent on getting him off as soon as possible, which was more or less true.

In the meanwhile, France had been watching this unfold with a smirk on his lips, feeling a bit triumphant now that the tables had been turned so completely. Even though in his opinion, neither Prussia nor England deserved it, he thought he should help move things along. Getting to his feet, he sauntered over to Prussia’s other side, one knee between Prussia’s spread legs but not interfering with England’s own efforts, an elegant hand sliding up the nation’s t-shirt and thumbing at a nipple.

“Are you still angry with me, monsieur?” France murmured sweetly into Prussia’s ear, grinning at the redness staining the nation’s cheeks as he bucked and writhed under England’s well-practiced hands. He glanced over at England, who let go with one last hard pull, and began to steady himself with a hand on Prussia’s shoulder.

Frustrated at the loss of contact, Prussia snarled and attempted to pull France down onto his lap. It would have been an erotic and dominating display of masculinity if France had actually been ready for it, but he was not, and only England’s presence of mind happily saved them from both toppling over backward onto the carpet.

“F-fuck, yeah,” Prussia groaned loudly as France gingerly began to move, so tight and hot and wet around his cock. This was how it should be done, he thought as he tightened his grip on France’s waist and planted his feet on the floor. Then his eyes shot open and he nearly choked when he felt something brush the base of his balls. Over France’s shoulder, England smirked back at him, and before he could even think of a protest, Prussia felt something hard and hot push against his own cock. 

“Scheisse! What the hell…” Prussia stammered, almost drowned out by France’s pained moan as he tried to adjust to the sudden overwhelming fullness.

“Oh shush, you,” England whispered vengefully before he slid in all the way, one hand clutching at France’s hip for support. Unable to do much else, Prussia watched, fascinated despite himself, as England caught France’s chin with his free hand, kissing him messily before he started thrusting.

Well, two can play at that. Breath coming out in shallow gasps, Prussia started pushing back, vying with England as they both began fucking France in a jarring, uneven rhythm. France held on for dear life while England grabbed his erection and began pumping away, tears springing to his eyes even as he rode the two of them vigorously. Underneath them, the poor upholstered chair seemed to creak pathetically, uncertain as to whether it could stand up to such activity much longer.

Fortunately for France and the chair, it was over in moments, Prussia swearing hoarsely in German as he came. He slumped forward into France’s arms, who continued rocking on his lap until England shoved into his ass one last time, a stream of soft curses flying from his lips.

As the last of their climaxes faded, the three nations finally stilled, their exhausted wrung-out bodies soaked with sweat and worse.

“That. Was. Awesome,” Prussia muttered after a brief silence. Filthy awesome to be exact, but what did one expect from two of Europe’s most notorious perverts? He winced in disgust as France freed himself and got to his feet, steadied by England’s not-that-steady arm.

“Hey, where are you two going?” he asked muzzily, feeling too lazy and satisfied to do anything else but bask in the afterglow.

“Up to bed, of course,” France replied, leaning heavily on England’s shoulder for support. “We are done here, non?”

Prussia opened one eye just in time to see England kick the chair backward, sending him spilling out onto the nice carpet.

“Fucking hell! What was that for?!” he shouted angrily, trying to pick himself back up but failing due to his pants around his knees.

“For interrupting us, Prussia. Now, go get what you need from the kitchen,” England said firmly, a glint of something more roguish than gentlemanly in his green eyes. “And just maybe, we’ll invite you to round two.”


End file.
